


star struck

by twistedroses



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedroses/pseuds/twistedroses
Summary: Emma's been having a bad couple days, and hitting a man with her car may just be the cherry on top to complete the horrid week.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: “I ran you over and all my attempts to make amends are making it worse” but I put a bit of a celebrity! au twist on it too.

To say that Emma’s been having _quite_ the start to her weekend would be the understatement of the century.

It had all started late Thursday night; after a long, frustrating day of work (in which she’d learned that three of her latest ‘clients’ had skipped out on their bail) she’d just been ready to go to sleep, to at least try to get some peace and quiet after the horrid day, when her cellphone rang.

To add to her annoyance, it was Neal.

He, as usual, had ignored her complaints that it was late and _why couldn’t you have called tomorrow, Henry is already asleep_ and just announced that he and Tamara, his girlfriend, were coming up to Boston tomorrow.

Emma hadn’t been expecting that; they were just here a few weeks ago for Christmas, spending Christmas Eve with Henry, so she hadn’t been quite sure why they decided to make the long drive back to Boston so soon. The memory of Christmas had made her grit her teeth together, increasing her aggravation at Neal’s call. He and Henry had only re-connected a few years ago (running into Neal with Henry during a school trip to Manhattan was one of the worst days of Emma’s life) and it had just worked out to be their first Christmas together. And like with the other holidays they’ve spent together since their reunion, Neal had given no thought to whatever Emma and Henry’s usual traditions of Christmas were, and his mention of this impromptu trip to Boston had put Emma on guard. Sure, there are no holidays in sight, but it’s not unlike Neal to change the game without telling her.

She had demanded to know what was going on but Neal was vague and unhelpful, and just told her that he’d tell her and Henry together when they were all at dinner tomorrow.

He’d hung up with a _don’t be late, Emma!_ before she could even protest the assumption that she and Henry would be free for dinner with only a day’s notice. Never mind that Henry’s favourite television programme is on Friday nights and _hell_ if she doesn’t have the hardest time trying to drag him away from it, but Fridays are Emma’s busiest day at work – the last day of the bail court for the week – and that usually means she’s home hopelessly late on the best of days.

And this Friday evening, as she half-slips and half-slides down the icy sidewalk to her apartment, is not a best day.

Neal made a reservation for 6:30 at some fancy French restaurant with a name Emma can’t even pronounce, and the clock is already ticking past 6 by the time she finally shoulders her way into her apartment.

And is greeted with the blaring opening theme music from Henry’s television show.

He doesn’t even look up as she marches past the living room, gritting her teeth at the loud string violins and harsh piano notes permeating her apartment. The opening theme drags on for several minutes at the beginning of each episode, loud and dramatic, and it’s for that reason and that reason alone that Emma refuses to watch the show. Though the show would normally draw her interest immensely, Emma is stubborn and now that she’s committed to never watching it, she never will.

“Turn that crap off,” she calls to Henry as a greeting, unravelling her winter scarf and ditching her heavy winter jacket and her purse across the couch as she passes, tossing her keys into their little dish on the side table. “We have to leave in five minutes.” 

She doesn’t wait for an answer – Henry finally looking away from the TV to give her a dark glare answer enough – and continues to her room. As she strips out of her work clothes, she stares at her closet, frowning as she considers her options. She’s got plenty of outfits to wear to a fancy restaurant, but they’re ones she usually saves for the nights out with her bail-bonds targets and are not terribly appropriate for a nice dinner with her kid’s father and his girlfriend.

But then her temper, which has been simmering all day, flares.

What is she thinking? What does it matter what _Neal_ thinks? Why should she spend any time considering what he would think about her outfit for dinner? He’s got no consideration for her, her time, or Henry’s either. This evening is just the latest in a long list of times that he’s shown it, and that doesn’t even cover the whole ‘I set you up for my crime and never apologized for it.’

If Neal wanted nice and sweet Emma, he’s about thirteen years too late.

Emma pushes aside any respectable options she has and selects a dress, black and leather, from the back of her closet, tugging out her highest black heels to pair it with too. The dress and the shoes are going to leave her legs freezing in Boston’s cold January and her step unsteady on the ice, but Emma doesn’t care. She feels great in the dress, wrapped in confidence as tight as the leather, and that’s exactly what she needs to face Neal and Tamara when her mood is already as foul as it is.

It’s not that she doesn’t like Tamara. Tamara is fine. Pleasant even, though a bit haughty at times; Emma’s sure her black dress is going to raise her perfectly arched eyebrows. But no, it’s not that.

It’s that _Henry_ doesn’t like her.

Neal and Tamara had already been together when Emma and Henry ran into Neal in New York a couple years ago, and though Emma thinks Henry’s dislike of Tamara stems mostly from a childlike place of ‘I want my parents to get back together and you are in the way’, the fact is he doesn’t like her and that makes any interaction with Neal and Tamara highly frustrating, increasing the lingering tension and awkwardness they all feel anytime they interact.

And even though Emma’s told Henry that there is no way she’d get back with Neal, even if Tamara wasn’t in the picture, Henry’s still a kid, and he dreams of what society sees as a ‘normal family’. And even now, that makes Emma’s heart ache. She’s only ever wanted to give Henry his best shot at life, and when he says things like that ...

She shakes her head, and forces those thoughts away. There’s no need to linger on any _what ifs_ now, not with her mood as it is, not when they’re already late, not when those kind of thoughts and doubts make her want to crawl into bed and never re-emerge from under the covers.

She leaves her bedroom before she can do just that, stopping quickly in the bathroom to re-apply her makeup and shake off any remaining snow from her hair. Her curls are a bit limp after a whole day, but a spritz with some hairspray and a rough hand through them has them looking rather artfully tousled, if she says so herself.  

When she re-emerges from the hall and into the living room, Henry hasn’t moved a muscle. At least his show has finally started, the horrid music replaced by the clanging of swords and cannon fire, the shouts of the actors loud over all the commotion.

His attention is glued to the screen, eyes wide in rapt excitement, and Emma sighs, leaning against the wall and observing him. She’s not thrilled about his choice of television show, but Henry’s been a latchkey kid his entire life, and it’s that lifestyle that’s allowed him to develop the bad habit of watching TV that she would never approve of otherwise. Still, it’s something he loves and she’s annoyed that because of his father’s lack of thought and consideration he’s going to miss it.

“Henry,” she says, gently. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

“It just started,” he replies, without looking away. “Five more minutes?”

 _Five more minutes_ always turns into _can’t I just finish this episode_ and Emma sighs.

“Henry,” she says again, as gently as possible, moving into the room and tugging the remote from his grip. She ignores his pleas and whines, and switches the television off, and turns to face her now grumpy son. “We’re supposed to meet your dad and Tamara at 6:30, and if we don’t leave right now, we’ll be late. Go on, get your coat.”

He pouts, looking far more like his four-year-old toddler self than the burgeoning teenager, but complies. As he passes her, muttering (in words that her four-year-old never would have known) at the indignity of having to miss his favourite show all the way down the hall, Emma smiles fondly; her little boy is really not so little anymore after all.

But her smile turns to a frown as she glances back at the now quiet TV. That he’s growing up is never more true than when Emma thinks about what he’s just been watching. _The Jolly Roger_ is a swashbuckling re-imagining of J.M. Barrie’s Captain Hook’s early life and as far as Emma can tell from what Henry’s told her, there’s very little similarity between the show and its origins in _Peter Pan_. Even Emma, who has never seen a single episode, knows that this adaptation is full of blood and violence and sword fights instead of a whimsical island with crocodiles and mermaids, and Henry _really_ shouldn’t be watching it.

By the time Henry re-enters the room, swinging his jacket on over his shoulders, Emma has pulled on her own coat – forgoing her winter parka for her woolen red pea coat – and she smiles at his still sour expression, trying to encourage a bit of positivity in turn.

“Ready, kid? Let’s go.”

She grabs her keys from their dish as she passes and ushers a pouting Henry out of the apartment ahead of her, and then they’re finally on their way.

Some jerk had parked in her usual spot outside the apartment building, so Emma parked further away than normal – down near the small shopping centre and hotel village near their apartment – and she hustles Henry along the two blocks it takes to reach the car. He’s still sulking when they finally get in the car, and Emma sighs, turning to face him before starting the engine.

“I’m sorry about your show, Henry. You can watch it when we get home, okay?”

“It’s the midseason premiere, Mom,” he grumbles. “It’ll all be spoiled by the time we get home. Tonight’s the story about how Captain Hook lost his hand, and I’ve been waiting _all_ season to see it –”

“They won’t actually show him losing his hand, will they?” Emma says, frowning as she finally turns the key in the ignition to start the car. “That doesn’t sound appropriate for thirteen-year-olds.”

She checks her mirrors briefly before taking her foot off the brake, and tapping the gas as Henry sighs, exasperatedly; they have this conversation about three times a week. “Mom, it’s _fine_ –”

But whatever else Henry’s about to say is interrupted by a loud _thump_ from the back of the car, accompanied by a grunt of surprise and a half-yelp of ‘bloody hell!’

Emma slams on the brakes, jolting the car to a stop even though the tires spin on the ice and screech in protest. It’s only then, once her car has come a creaking halt that her brain catches up to what just happened and her heart drops into her stomach in horror.

_Oh my god, I just hit someone._

Henry’s arrived at the same conclusion, all arguments about _The Jolly Roger_ gone from his lips as he twists in his seat, staring out the back window of the Bug.

“Mom, did we hit somebody?”

Emma doesn’t answer, already half-way out of the door, and it’s all she can do to not slip on the slick ground as she rounds the car.

Her victim is a man around her age, sat sprawled on the damp Boston pavement behind her car. He’s clutching at the right side of his torso, muttering darkly under his breath, and another wave of horror and guilt floods through Emma.

“Hey – oh my god – are you ... are you okay?”

He doesn’t look up, but does nod once in response. That motion makes him wince, and his stream of dark mutters continues, his hand pressing firmly against his side.  

Emma chances a nervous glance over his head to Henry, who has also emerged from the car. He’s staring at the man with impossibly wide eyes, his mouth hanging open in a rather comical way. He’s probably shocked that his mother just nearly ran a stranger over, Emma reasons grimly, looking back to the man and crouching down so she’s eye-level with him.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

The man looks to her finally, and she gets a good look at him in the warm glow of the streetlights. He’s got messy dark hair and light scruff on his jaw, handsome even with the expression of pain that’s crunched his features into a tight grimace. But his blue eyes are wide open in shock and Emma’s sure it’s a trick of the fading light that they seem to widen even more as he takes in the sight of her in her high heels and bare legs.

“Aye,” he replies finally. His voice, tinged with an English accent, sounds winded and he makes no move to get up, frowning as he presses a hand gingerly against his injured side as he shifts his weight. “You just bumped me.”

Emma wishes the ground would just open up and swallow her whole, and she grimaces. “I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I was distracted. I didn’t ... I didn’t see you.”

The man rolls his eyes as if to say _obviously_ but the smirk he shoots her is more amused than reproachful. He doesn’t say anything though, and when it becomes clear that he is in no rush to move just yet, pressing and probing at his side with a frown on his face, Emma straightens up.

Henry, who’s still hovering at the side of the Bug in stunned silence, edges forward then and catches Emma’s eye.

“Should I call an ambulance?”

Emma looks to the man, unsure, but he’s looked up now and appears utterly horrified.

“No, no. I’m fine.” He leans forward in an attempt to stand, but then falls back with a wince and a muttered curse, pressing a gloved hand again to his side. Emma’s sure there’s already a nasty bruise forming in the shape of her Bug’s fender, and a swoop of guilt rushes through her again.

“Here, let me help you up.”

He waves her away. “No, I’m fine, really, I just need a moment –”

Emma ignores his protests, and bends down to grip both his gloved hands in hers. He starts to say something, eyes growing wider in alarm, but Emma’s already pulling him up. He’s halfway to standing when, to her supreme surprise, her right arm pulls back faster than the left, losing grip on the man’s. It sends her spinning off balance, and with her heels having hardly any grip on the icy road, it’s only her quick reflexes that have her dropping his other hand to reach out and grab the edge of her car. He, then, with no momentum in his favour, has no other choice but to fall back onto the ground, and he lands with a heavy thud onto his already injured side.

Standing by the edge of her car, panting and gasping, Emma isn’t sure what just occurred. She looks down to her right hand and – _oh my god_ – in her own grip is the man’s gloved, now detached, hand.

“What the –”

“You _really_ don’t have a left hand?” Henry demands then, finally stepping away from the car. That snaps Emma into reality, and she glares at her son and his lack of tact, her cheeks burning even hotter as she finally realizes what she just did.

The man has pushed himself back to a seated position, grimacing even more now. There’s a high blush on his cheeks too, and he looks up to Henry, who is still gazing at him as if he’s never seen anyone like him before.

“Aye,” he replies in a quiet voice.

Emma edges herself off her car, hesitant on the slippery road, and moves to the man again. “I am so sorry,” she says, for what’s probably the tenth time. “I didn’t – I didn’t realize.”

He nods at her in recognition. “It’s alright,” he replies, taking the fake hand – _oh god_ – back from Emma. “Happens more than you think.”

She sincerely doubts that, but a flood of appreciation fills her nevertheless. The last few days have been tortuous already, but at least the man she just hit and ( _dear god_ ) ripped a hand off of isn’t yelling and swearing at her.

The man has clicked the hand back into place, and she steps forward again to help him up, and with her grip high on his forearm this time, helps him rise to standing. When he’s upright, grimacing, she maintains her grip on him in case he is far more injured than he lets on and he collapses on her.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I really am sorry.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” the man says again, and he smiles reassuringly when he lifts his gaze to meet Emma’s anxious eyes. “Really, love. You just barely bumped me.”

Emma keeps her grip on him for a few more seconds, uncertain as to why this guy is seemingly okay with nearly being run down in the street, but reluctantly releases her hold when he smiles again at her. But she hesitates to step away, as she isn’t sure what the protocol is here – does she insist on taking him to the hospital to make sure he’s okay, or just hang around until it’s clear he’s fine and on his way?

Instead, she asks: “What’s your name?”

He hesitates for a second, a brief flicker of confusion on his features that Emma doesn’t understand, but it’s gone quickly and he’s smiling again. His smile is somehow different now too, less guarded and far more open; he’s even more handsome when he’s looking at her like that.

“Killian Jones,” he says. “And yours?”

“Emma Swan. And this is my son Henry.” She gestures to him, and Killian turns a bit to smile at Henry.

“Nice to meet you, lad.”

Henry, who’s looking thunderstruck again, takes a few moments to reply. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

Emma shoots Henry a strange look over Killian’s shoulder as he turns back around, but before she can question her son, he is speaking again, addressing Killian.

“What are you looking for?”

Killian’s scanning the icy road with a frown. “My cellphone. I was texting my brother when ... well, let’s just say, I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”

Emma’s cheeks flush, and she drops her own gaze to look around for it, sucking in a deep breath when she spots it just a few moments later. Its half-compressed under her tire, the screen crushed and completely shattered, and Emma wonders vaguely how this night could get any worse.

“Um, I found it.”

Killian follows her eye line, and he sighs when he sees the crushed wreckage. He bends down with a grimace to pick up some of the accessible pieces and upon straightening again, he examines them for a few moments before sighing once more.

“Don’t worry about it, love. It’s easy to replace.”

“Right,” Emma says, and reality slams back into her. She has no idea how she’s going to afford to replace this guy’s phone, but somehow, someway, she’ll have to figure it out. “Well, I can give you my email and when you’ve replaced it, you can email me the receipt and I’ll reimburse you –”

Killian looks up to her, startled. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean _you_ have to replace it,” he says hurriedly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Emma, who’d already been re-calculating how she was going to distribute her paycheck this month, pauses. She blinks back at Killian, unsure of what to say for a few moments. “Oh,” she says, finally. “Okay. Are you sure?”

He nods at her, and slides the broken pieces into the pocket of his leather jacket, a cheeky grin now lifting his features. “I figure when I tell the phone company that a woman nearly ran me down while using their device and the only casualty was this phone, instead of me too, they’ll be quite accommodating. Terrible publicity otherwise.”

He says it with a lilt of amusement, but Emma doesn’t laugh. She’s not sure how _he_ is so okay with everything, but she’s still a bit shaken up by the idea that she could have so easily really hurt him, could have even killed him.

The mirth fades from his eyes as he meets her solemn face, and his expression becomes serious in turn. He stuffs his hands, real and fake, into the pockets of his jacket – which, Emma notes with a wince, has an enormous rip down the right hand side where he fell – and says, “Well, like I said, no real harm done. I won’t keep you two any longer, I’ll just be on my way and we can put this behind us –”

And he turns to go, nodding in departure to Henry, but before Emma can stop herself, she’s reached out to grab his arm.

“Wait.”

He turns back to her, eyebrow raised in cautious question. “Yes?”

“You can’t just –” she swallows, and shakes her head. “There’s gotta be something I can do to make it up to you. I hit you, for god’s sake, and you’re hurt, your phone is destroyed, your jacket is torn –” _Not to mention I just ripped off your prosthetic hand..._

Killian apparently reads her mind for that last thought, but he shakes his head with a warm smile. “It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”

Emma opens her mouth to argue further, but Henry beats her to the punch, piping up in an excited and breathless tone: “We’re going out for dinner! You should come with us!”

And at this point Emma has completely forgotten about their dinner plans, but now that Henry’s mentioned it ... this could be a great solution. She can’t afford to replace the guy’s phone, but paying for his dinner – she can do that. She can easily visualize Neal’s annoyed face if she shows up with some guy in tow, but who cares what he thinks. He gave her no notice, so she’s not going to give him any either.

Killian is protesting, “No, I couldn’t impose –” and Emma interrupts him.

“You’re not imposing. Buying you dinner is the least I can do. Come on. Henry, get in the car.”

Henry, grinning widely, obeys, pulling up the passenger seat to clamber into the backseat, but Killian remains frozen to the spot. He looks torn, between accepting her offer or just making a run for it, but maybe it’s Emma’s stern stance or maybe because he just realizes he’s about to get a free dinner, but whatever internal war he’s had settles and he nods.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have offered. Come on.”

But once in the car, Emma can’t help but think _what the hell am I doing, I don’t even know this guy_ and she almost backs out, just about tells him she’s changed her mind and she’ll just drop him off wherever he wants. She suspects Killian would be okay with that, as he settles in rather stiffly beside her, but then Henry starts talking, and Emma knows _he_ wouldn’t be. Whatever the circumstances that have led to this strange turn of events, Henry is fascinated with Killian. He’s leaning so far forward he might as well be sitting on the centre console and gazing at him with wide eyes as if he’s some strange creature he’s never seen before.

Dinner it is.

“What are you doing in Boston?” Henry demands as Emma starts to drive, backing out carefully this time and making sure absolutely no one is around her car. “Do you live here?”

“My brother does. I was in London over the winter break, so I didn’t get to see him until now.”

“Is that where you live?” Emma asks. “London?”

“No,” Killian replies, and there’s something cautious in his voice now. He hesitates for a moment, before continuing, in a guarded tone, “I’m based in Los Angeles, though part of the year I’m down in the Caribbean for work.”

That’s certainly not what Emma was expecting, and she sends him an incredulous look.

“The Caribbean? What are you, some kind of pirate?”

Henry lets out a snort of laughter, which he quickly tries to muffle with a hand over his mouth, and when Emma turns to glance at him, questioning, she catches sight of the half-smirk on Killian’s face.

“Something like that.”

Emma’s lie detector, her superpower as she likes to call it, doesn’t react at that, and she feels distinctly like she’s missing out on some joke. “Well,” she continues, a bit warily, “you and Henry will have a lot to talk about then at dinner. He loves that show about pirates. _The Jolly Roger_ , right, Henry?”

For some reason, a blush floods over Henry’s cheeks then, and he mutters a shy, “Yes.”

Killian shifts in his seat to look at Henry, and he smiles softly. “Do you, lad?” he asks, but then his expression shifts a bit, and he frowns. “Aren’t you a little young for it?”

Henry sighs dramatically, all traces of shyness gone in an instant. “Not you too.”

Killian laughs, and he looks to Emma. His laughter subsides, and he considers her for a second with thoughtful eyes, before asking, in a much softer voice, “And you? What do you think of it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. Just heard its _dreadful_ opening music, and that’s enough for me to know I don’t want to watch it.”

She can see Killian’s eyebrows rise from her peripheral vision and Henry sucks in a sharp breath of air.

“Mom!”

He twists abruptly to stare at Killian, who’s expression of surprise has been replaced by one of amusement. “She doesn’t really mean that,” Henry assures quickly. “She’s just never seen it. I’m sure if she watched it, she’d like it.”

“I’m sure,” Killian says seriously, though his eyes are still dancing with mirth.

Emma still feels like there’s something she’s missing, and she narrows her eyes at the pair of them, but then Henry’s talking again, and by the time she pulls into the parking spot in front of the restaurant, Emma’s all but forgotten it.

Henry hurries inside to the warm restaurant once they’re all out on the sidewalk, but before Emma can do the same, Killian’s hand grips her forearm.

“Swan, wait.”

She turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “What?”

For a moment, Killian looks like he’s about to tell her something important, eyes back to being cautious and guarded, but then he just shakes his head. He gestures to the restaurant, looming just in front of them with its name in intricate, fancy writing, and says, “I didn’t expect to go a place like this. When you said dinner, I expected ... well, not this. This place is expensive, you don’t have to buy me something here.”

“Oh, that’s okay. We were planning to come here anyways.”

He frowns, and doesn’t release his hand from her arm. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but –”

“Killian, it’s fine,” Emma says again, and she pulls away from him. “Come on.”

Henry’s waiting for them just inside the first set of doors to the restaurant when Killian and Emma join him and he eagerly leads them then into the grand foyer of the restaurant.

It’s beautiful, full of cushy sofas and fireplaces, and the foyer opens out into the restaurant proper just ahead. White clothed tables spread out in a seashell formation, each table adorned with frosted glass candles and fresh flower centrepieces, and a huge, elaborate crystal chandelier hangs proudly overhead in the centre of the room, catching the light and sending a cascade of sparkles throughout the area.

Henry doesn’t waste a moment on the pretty décor, bounding off to one of the tables to the left as soon as they enter with an excited, “Hi, Dad!”

Killian, who’d been admiring an elaborate painting of a galleon out at sea, stiffens, head whirling around to follow where Henry’s going. Emma looks too, and as she watches Killian take in Neal, rising to give Henry a hug, she suddenly feels like a total fool.

What was she _thinking_? Inviting the guy she nearly drove over to a fancy dinner with her ex and his girlfriend? And not even telling said guy about it beforehand?

She looks back to Killian, dreading his reaction. He just looks confused, a crease between his eyebrows furrowing his brow, and he asks, quietly, “His father?”

“Yeah. I should’ve – I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have told you he’d be here.”

He regards her for a moment, but then just nods, and it’s apparent he’s completely misread the situation. “It’s okay, Swan. I can use the restaurant’s phone, call for a taxi, I don’t want to interrupt your family’s meal –”

The idea that _Neal_ is Emma’s family is so ludicrous, she lets out a snort. But that only confuses Killian more, brow furrowing even more, and Emma hurriedly explains, “We’re not – we’re not together, Killian. We haven’t been since before Henry was born. So no – you’re not interrupting anything. He’s just in town, and wanted to see Henry.”

He still looks unsure, but a hostess arrives beside them, hand out for their coats, and then Emma leads the way over to Neal before Killian can protest anymore.

Henry’s disappeared, his jacket left swung over the back of a chair, and Tamara is nowhere in sight either. Neal has resumed his seat and is frowning at the pair of them. As they approach, her eyes fall onto the table; they’ve clearly already eaten, plates scraped clean, and Emma has to resist the urge to ball her hands into fists.

They’re not that late – okay, it’s nearing 7:30 now – but still; they couldn’t have _waited_?

“Where’s Henry gone?” Emma asks once they reach the table, not even bothering with a greeting.

“This place is like a maze so Tamara’s showing him where him where the bathroom is,” Neal replies, and then his eyes flicker to Killian. “Who’s this?”

For a moment, the truth almost comes out, Emma already bracing herself for Neal’s look of disbelief and rolled eyes, but he’s got that annoying look on his face, the one she’s seen a few times since reuniting with him. Nearly a year ago, she’d been sort of semi-dating this guy named Walsh, and though Neal broke her heart more than a decade ago and didn’t have anything to do with her for just as long, whenever some guy is around Emma, he always gets this look on his face, like he has some right to have a say in the fact that Emma could be in a relationship – as if he has some claim on her still.

“This is Killian,” she says simply, deciding to let Neal come to his own conclusions because she’s sure he’s already done so. “Killian, this is Neal. Henry’s dad.”

If Killian’s surprised Emma didn’t explain the circumstances that led to his presence here tonight, he doesn’t show it. He holds his good hand out to Neal, and says, in a perfectly smooth, pleasant tone, “Nice to meet you.”

Neal, after a beat, reaches out to shake Killian’s hand, though he drops it quickly. “Yeah, sure.” His eyes slide from Killian then to Emma, and his frown deepens. “Emma, can I talk to you for a second?”

She clenches her jaw but nods, exchanging a quick look with Killian before following Neal. Whatever his earlier thoughts were about Emma’s relationship with Neal, he’s clearly clued in to the fact that there’s tension there and Emma appreciates the small motion of encouragement he gives her in a small smile as she steps away, smiling back in turn.

But that small fragment of happiness dissipates as Neal leads to her to a little alcove near the bar, as he turns to face her with a scowl.

“You know, Emma,” he starts, and she already know with absolute certainty that she’s going to hate what’s going to come out of his mouth next. “Tamara and I drove nearly four hours to come down here and see Henry, and you could’ve had the decency to let me know ahead of time that you were bringing some guy along too.”

Her rage rears its head again, flooding hot and furious through her veins, and she doesn’t even bring up the fact that, until an hour ago, she had no idea who Killian even was, and instead snaps out, “ _Decency_? You called me _last night_ to tell me you were coming into town. That’s not a lot of notice, Neal.”

He glares at her. “This wasn’t exactly a planned trip, Emma. We’ve got news to tell Henry, and I wanted to tell him as soon as I could, so, yeah –”

“News?” she interrupts, frowning. What possible news could he have that he couldn’t have said over a phone call? “What news?”

Neal squirms, and Emma’s gaze grows colder the longer he doesn’t answer. “I was hoping to tell you both together, but well, fine,” he says, and he looks thoroughly annoyed that his plan hasn’t worked out. “I wanted to tell Henry in person: I proposed to Tamara yesterday, and she said yes. So we’re going to get married.”

Emma blinks, and though it’s been so long, the time between them filled with nothing but distance and bitterness and betrayal, she almost still expects another piece of the heart that still belongs to the broken 17-year-old who had loved him to fracture at the news.

But her heart doesn’t even flinch. And Emma knows she’s been over him for a long time – even the memories of what they once had poisoned and burned by what he did – but still, she sometimes wondered if the wounds he left on her would ever recede. But now, the feeling of _nothing_ , of no ache in her chest or clench of her stomach at the news that the man she used to love has moved on too ...  maybe, just maybe, Emma’s heart has finally healed the claw marks he left behind.

“Congratulations,” she says, and she hopes he can hear that she means it. “That’s great.”

But then a thought surfaces in Emma’s mind – _I wanted to tell Henry in person_ – and she narrows her eyes. “Why did you invite me to dinner too? You could have just told me over the phone and I would’ve brought Henry so you and Tamara could talk to him without me.”

Neal stuffs his hands into his pockets, and looks away from her, guilt flashing across his features. “You know ... Henry’s never been totally okay with Tamara. I thought ... I thought he might like to have you around in case he got upset.”

Her lie detector flares up, and Emma stares at him, crossing her arms across her chest in disbelief. “That’s not true. What, did you just not want to have to deal with him if he was upset?”

He doesn’t answer, and that’s all the confirmation Emma needs.  Her eternal anger towards him resurfaces; while the heartbreak may have healed, Emma’s sure the anger she has at Neal will never fade. Obviously, while she’s changed and grown, Neal is still the same cowardly man he was thirteen years ago.

“You’re not telling him tonight.” He lifts his head, mouth open in outrage and ready to argue, but Emma continues, “You and Tamara can take him out to lunch tomorrow, and tell him then. He deserves to hear it from just you two. And if he is upset, _you_ are the one who needs to work it out with him. Not me.”

“Emma, come on –”

She holds her hand up to silence him, and looks away, taking a deep breath to calm herself, and as she does so, spots Henry. He’s returned from the bathroom, and has abandoned Tamara at the table to instead stand with Killian, who seems to have attracted a large group of waiters and host staff. Henry is grinning, wide-eyed and cheeks flushed, and Emma’s heart smiles at the sight.

Neal is right; Henry will probably be a little miffed at his father’s engagement, and after all they’ve already been through tonight – Henry having to miss his favourite show and then (perhaps a bit more traumatizing) his mother nearly killing a man – Emma wants to spare him that, for at least one more day.

She turns back to glare at Neal, who’s glaring at her right back. “Henry’s had enough excitement for one night, so you’re going to tell him tomorrow.”

Emma turns on her heel then, ignoring anything else Neal could possibly have to say, and marches back over to the table. She hears him call out for Tamara behind her, and the woman departs the table in turn, moving to speak with Neal off to the side with hardly a glance at Emma as she passes her.

That makes Emma only more annoyed, and it’s hard to contain her feelings when she reaches the table, but she plasters on a smile anyways. Killian and Henry left the group of servers when they saw her coming, and Killian reaches the table first, pulling out Emma’s chair for her.

“Thanks,” she says, and while Henry’s sufficiently distracted by looking at his own menu once he’s sat down to notice her mood, Killian is more perceptive.

She can practically feel his glare at Neal and Tamara over her shoulder, and as he sits down beside her, he leans close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek, and murmurs quietly, “Are you alright, Swan? What happened?”

She shakes her head, and though Killian leaned close to speak so she could only hear, she’s still too aware of Henry’s ears nearby. “Nothing,” she whispers back. And though she doesn’t really owe him an explanation, at the look on his face, she can’t help but add: “I’ll tell you later.”

He doesn’t look satisfied, eyes flicking back to Neal to with steel in them, but he nods nonetheless, and to her surprise, reaches out to grip her hand in his own, rubbing his thumb softly over the back of her hand.

And normally Emma would snatch her hand away out of instinct, depositing a frosty glare upon whoever was so presumptuous and bold, but she’s surprised at herself. She doesn’t find it any of those things, not too forward or possessive or anything like that.

It’s just comforting.

She wonders if Killian’s misread the situation again, that she brought him here on false pretenses to pretend to be her boyfriend in front of her kid’s dad, and he’s just playing the part he thinks she wants. But, as Neal and Tamara return to the table, he releases her hand, and then Emma’s wondering if maybe he’s not playing at all – wouldn’t he keep his grip if he was faking it?

Neal and Tamara are both frowning as they arrive at the table, and don’t say a word to either Killian or Emma. Neal just crouches down beside Henry, tapping his arm to get his attention, and says, “Henry, Tamara and I are gonna head out. We’ve had a long drive, and we’re both pretty beat. We’ll go for lunch tomorrow, okay, bud? Just the three of us.”

Even though the lunch part was her idea, Emma hadn’t suggested that they just up and leave, and Emma hates the flicker of disappointment in her son’s eyes as he sets the menu down with a frown. “Oh. Okay.”

He gets up to give Neal a hug goodbye, waving at Tamara, and then they’re gone.

An uneasy tension descends on the table then, Henry’s earlier good mood fading in light of his father’s departure. Emma’s not sure how to break the tension, feeling a bit like she scared them off and thus feels somewhat guilty too for Henry’s dark mood, and Killian senses the change in atmosphere too. But instead of just letting it fester, he jumps straight into it, attempting to salvage something of the evening.

“Henry, did you know that it takes ten full days to shoot just one episode of _The Jolly Roger_?”

He looks up, surprise on his face. “That long?”

Killian nods, and launches into an explanation of why. Emma’s impressed – he must be a fan of the show too – and then, as the evening goes on, with the meals arriving and the conversation still flowing, most of the bad events of the past two days that have led up to this moment start to fade from Emma’s mind.

And it’s pretty much totally because of Killian.

Though she thought he and Henry would just talk about the pirate show, Killian’s got a million other stories too, on the widest variety of topics (from snorkeling mishaps in the Caribbean to what museums are the best to visit in London) and Henry eats up everything he has to say. His good mood returns as if it hadn’t been dampened at all, and when Killian’s not talking, Henry is, as animated and excited as Emma’s ever seen him.

Killian’s just as good of a listener as he is a storyteller, listening intently and genuinely to everything Henry has to say. That, perhaps, is even more fascinating to Emma than his stories; even the rare few times that she’d allowed Walsh and Henry to meet, Walsh had clearly no lasting interest in whatever Henry had to say, and Emma finds herself wondering just who this Killian Jones is, who weaves words with careful articulation and actually cares what her son has to say.

After dessert – which arrived too quickly for Emma’s liking – Henry disappears to the bathroom once more before they leave, while Emma and Killian head up to the front to pay the bill and collect their coats. She’s surprised she’s so reluctant to let the evening end, her feet dragging all the way up to the hostess stand, as she had been dreading it all day but it’s turned out nothing like she expected.

A thought appears in her mind, one she quickly banishes as selfish and cold, but ... but perhaps hitting Killian with her car was actually a blessing in disguise. Even though Neal turned out to be a disappointment tonight, at least Henry didn’t have his entire evening ruined.

As the hostess disappears to show another set of patrons to their table, Emma shrugs her jacket on, hand slipping into her pocket to remove her wallet but finds, to her surprise, the pocket is empty. Frowning, she checks the other pocket, but its only got her keys.

Then, with a drop of horror that settles like lead into her stomach, she realizes – she’d ditched her purse on the couch as she came into her apartment earlier, and then she’d been in such a rush to get to the restaurant on time, it just slipped her mind to pluck the wallet from it to slip into her jacket, and _oh my god, I don’t even have any money on me_ –

Killian notices her standing there, frozen, and he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Earlier, Emma wondered how on earth this day could get any worse. It seems as if the universe took that as a challenge, and having a nice dinner was just a distraction from the truth of Emma’s life: as always, things can never just go well and _stay_ well for Emma Swan.

“My ... my wallet. I don’t have it.”

He blinks back at her, eyebrow raising in question. “You don’t have your wallet?”

She nods, and though her mood has been incredibly improved by dinner, though she was just thinking about how perhaps everything wasn’t so bad after all, this – forgetting her wallet – is a stark reminder of just how things always work for her. The rest of the crazy day and hell, even week, catches up to her in a rush of emotion and tears of frustration prick at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Killian. I left it at home, I didn’t take it out of my purse before we left, we were in a rush and –”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he tries to interrupt her with a smooth, gentle, “It’s okay, Swan, I’ll get it –” but words keep spilling from Emma’s mouth, without pause.

“And I know I offered to buy you supper because I _hit_ you with my car, but now – now you’ll have to pay, and I’ll pay you back, I swear, I should even just buy you a new phone too, and a new jacket, this is all my fault, I’m so sorry –”

The treacherous tears are leaking out of her eyes now, but before she can brush them away, Killian’s stepped forward, running his thumb under her eyes swiftly to remove the tears.

That alone stops Emma’s rant, and she blinks back at him. He’s staring at her with concern, and he says, very seriously, “Swan, it’s okay. I’m not upset, so don’t be either, okay? These things happen. I’ll get supper, and don’t worry about paying me back.”

She gapes at him for a second – _seriously, who is this guy_ – before shaking her head vigorously. “No, no, I _will_. I’m paying for supper, that was the deal, okay?” She turns to the hostess stand, and steals one of the pens and a scrap of paper off it, scrawling down her email address and handing it to him. “When you have the chance, email me the receipt and where I can transfer the money too, okay?”

He accepts the piece of paper, though his fingers hesitate to put it in his pocket and Emma glares at him.

“Killian, I’m serious. Don’t just not email me, okay? I want to pay for it, and if you don’t, I will hunt you down and make you take my $6o.”

He smiles at that, rolling his eyes, but he nods, slipping the paper into his pocket. “I’ll email you, Swan.”

The hostess returns then, apologetic for taking so long, and Killian steps forward to pay. Emma hovers nearby, feeling stupid and awkward, and she tries not to let it show once Killian’s done and Henry’s returned from the bathroom, thankfully having noticed nothing amiss.

But as they’re leaving, Henry bounding ahead to get in the car, it’s clear that Killian at least can tell how her mood’s darkened and rests his hand on Emma’s arm, turning her to face him.

“Swan, really, it’s okay. Don’t be upset.”

She takes a deep breath, and twisting a bit so Henry can’t see her expression. “I feel awful. This whole night has been a disaster.”

“Not at all,” Killian says firmly, and the intensity in his voice makes her look up to him again.  “Truly, Swan. Though it was ... unconventional, it wasn’t a disaster. I enjoyed spending time with you and Henry. This dinner was lovely.”

“Until you had to pay for it,” she grumbles.

His expression softens, and he runs his hand down the length of her arm, stopping to hold her hand again, thumb brushing across the back of it once more. “I wasn’t talking about the food, love.”

She’s still upset, but she swears her heart just stumbled at his words and the meaning behind them, and she’s suddenly not as miserable as she was just a few seconds ago.

“How about,” he starts, a cheeky smile now lifting his features, “the next time I’m in Boston, let’s go out for dinner again. Have a do-over, as they say. And I’ll make sure you have your wallet this time so _you_ can pay.”

She laughs, feeling even a bit better at that, and she nods. “Okay.”

He nods, and releases her arm so they can resume their trek to the car. “Though,” he adds, staring pointedly at the back of her car as they pass, rubbing at his side, “perhaps as a part of this do-over, we can skip the getting-hit-by-your-car part, yes?”

Emma laughs again, shaking her head as she gets into the car, and by the time they’re on the road again, on the way to Killian’s hotel to drop him off, she’s feeling a lot better. Sure, she still feels a bit drained and upset because today has been _a lot_ but the feelings of stupidity and inadequacy she’d felt at the hostess stand are gone.

And when she pulls up to the drop-off loop, Henry’s half-asleep in the backseat, worn out by all the excitement, and Emma turns the car off, shifting to face Killian.

“Thanks, Killian,” she says, and she rests her hand on his forearm just in case he gets any ideas about leaving just yet. “Really. You could have been a total ass about all this, but – well, this probably sounds awful of me, but I’m really glad it was _you_ that I hit and not someone else.”

He snorts, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “Well, I’m just as thankful it was _you_ and not someone else. And, I promise,” he says, his voice losing some of its teasing; she feels like his eyes are burning into her with their intensity. “The next time I’m in Boston, I’ll send you an email. So we can have our do-over dinner.”

Emma nods, and though she knows it’s unwise to get her hopes up, to believe that this random guy really will contact her again, she can’t help the grin that spreads across her features.

“Good. And,” she adds, as the thought hits her, “don’t forget to email me that receipt for tonight; if you don’t, I _will_ hunt you down, even if I have to go to the Caribbean to do it.”

He laughs. “I promise I’ll email you.”

Emma nods, and though she’s loath to, she removes her hand from Killian’s arm. “See you next time, then.”

“Until next time, Swan.”

She remains parked outside the hotel until he’s inside the hotel lobby, and waves back to him as he turns back just before disappearing inside. It’s only then that she drives home, and though tonight has been crazy, though she still feels overwhelmed and exhausted, she’s also feeling far warmer and happier inside than she has in a long time.

.

“Hey Liam. Yeah, it’s me. I know, my phone’s broken, sorry. It’s a long story, but listen, you’ll never believe the night I’ve had. Also – I’m thinking of sticking around Boston for a few more days, what do you think?”

.

The next morning, Emma is woken up from a restful sleep by the shrill sounds of her cellphone ringing. Still half-asleep, she mutters darkly to herself, but reaches out to grab the cursed thing off her side table. She peers at the screen – vision still blurry from sleep, noting that _Ruby Lucas_ is calling, and that there’s about four previous missed calls and about a dozen new text messages.

“Hello?”

“Emma! I can’t believe you!” Her friend’s voice is breathless, excited and thrilled, and Emma winces at the loud sound. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Killian Jones?”

She blinks, processing Ruby’s words with her half-asleep brain, but it’s all still a jumble in there and she says, dumbly, “What?”

Ruby sighs in exasperation, and says, more slowly and pointedly, “Emma. _Killian Jones_.”

For another moment, Emma just lies there, but then the memories of last night come rushing back with a vengeance, and she sits upright. “Killian Jones? What – what are you talking about? How do you know him?”

“How do _I_ know him? How do _you_ know him? I thought you hated _The Jolly Roger_ , but then there you are, out for dinner with fricking Captain Hook himself and –”

“ _What_?”

Emma pulls the phone from her ear, hanging up on Ruby without another word. She pulls up the internet app on her phone, typing _Killian Jones_ into the search bar and her stomach drops with a swoop.

Well that certainly explains Henry’s strange behaviour all night.

(They’d gotten home after dropping Killian off, Henry still a bundle of excitement. Emma had tried to sit him down to talk about the night, to say she was sorry for the strange evening, but he’d just replied with ‘ _this was the best night ever_!’ and bounded off to bed, all earlier thoughts of watching _The Jolly Roger_ seemingly gone from his mind. And Emma – Emma was so tired herself that she’d just shrugged it off, gone to bed herself...)

She’s going to kill Killian. How could he have not told her who he was? Sure, she didn’t recognize him, she’s never seen his show – with a sharp flash of horror, Emma remembers her comments about the show on the drive to the restaurant.

_I’ve never seen it. Just heard its dreadful opening music, and that’s enough for me to know I don’t want to watch it._

Of _course_ he didn’t tell her who he was.

Emma groans, and flops back onto her pillows, face burning in embarrassment. He probably thinks she’s a lunatic – first hitting him with her car, then forcing him to a dinner with her ex, insulting his show, not having her wallet to pay for dinner –

Wait – _what was it that Ruby said?_

Emma looks back to her phone, scrolling past the near hundreds of fan sites, and then, under the _News_ section, she sees a headline that makes her stomach clench again, her mouth dropping open in horror.

_KILLIAN JONES’ SECRET FAMILY?_

Alright, she is _really_ going to kill him.

There’s only three pictures in the article, grainy and a bit unfocused, as if taken from a cellphone but its enough to warrant the article’s title. The first is a picture of Killian pulling out her seat, and then of him leaning close to her, his lips nearly at her ear. And Emma remembers that moment, knows he was just leaning close to speak softly so Henry wouldn’t hear, but it would only be too easy to twist into whatever the reporters want.

The last picture is of the three of them at the table, and well, Henry’s only seen from the back but he’s got dark hair (like Killian), they’re all having a meal together and honestly, if Emma didn’t know better, she’d think they were a family too. They look it – smiling and laughing, sat together with ease.

How could he not tell her?

She kicks the covers away abruptly, standing and pulling on whatever clothes she finds on the floor of her room. She marches purposely to the front door, scrawling a quick note to Henry that she’s just run out for breakfast and will be back shortly. She almost adds a _you should have told me who he was, you’re so grounded_ but doesn’t at the last minute.

It’s not Henry’s fault.

It’s Killian’s.

.

“Ma’am, it is against our policy to reveal the room number of any of our guests.”

“I know, I know, but I need to talk to him. This is really important.”

The hotel clerk sighs, and gives Emma a dark glare. It’s even darker than the look she got when she first approached the desk; Emma hadn’t realized how fancy this place was – but she should’ve, knowing now that it’s where Killian Jones is staying – and if the clerk was unimpressed with Emma’s scraggly hair and hoodie and jeans before, she’s even more unimpressed now.

“Ma’am, as I’ve said several times, I cannot give out confidential information.”

Emma sighs, and is about to just go prowl the hallways of the hotel until she can find him herself when a voice from behind her speaks.

“Swan?”

She swirls around; standing just behind her, looking as if he was just about to step out for a morning coffee, with tousled hair and half-asleep eyes, is Killian.

Emma shoots the woman behind the desk a glare, and wants to say _See I am not a crazy fan, I really do know him,_ but instead just marches up to him, grabbing his arm and hauling him off to a more private part of the lobby.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, not even bothering with a greeting.

To his credit, he looks incredibly guilty. “I apologize, Swan. I should have. I was actually just about to email you and tell you we needed to meet, so I could tell you in person, but you’ve obviously already heard.” Here, he pauses, and if possible, even guiltier. He scratches absently behind his ear, purposely not looking at her, and continues, “It’s just rare when I can just meet someone as myself these days. I know it’s not an excuse but that’s the truth. I almost told you when we arrived at the restaurant, but I didn’t want you to think differently of me. Especially with your comment about the show, I figured ... well I figured it would perhaps make things different.”

She opens her mouth, ready to apologize, but he just smiles softly as if he can read her mind and continues speaking before she can.

“It’s okay, Swan. I’m not offended. But I just thought – well, it was nice to be just Killian Jones with you, and not Captain Hook. And I know I should have told you when you dropped me off, but we’d had such a nice dinner and by then I felt like if I told you ... it would just change things. But now I see that I should have told you, no matter what I felt.”

He looks ashamed still, and Emma stares back at him, but feels a lot of her anger drain out of her. Yeah, he still should’ve told her, but ... she understands the urge to have someone know you as you are, not as your past or who you used to be, or in his case, who he pretends to be.

“Yeah, you still should have told me,” she says finally. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have thought differently, I’m only human, but still. I wish – I wish I had known just so I knew what to expect when I woke up this morning. With those pictures.”

For a moment, there’s the ghost of a dark expression across his face and he shakes his head. “That’s absolutely my fault, Swan, and I completely apologize. I wasn’t thinking, but I should have known. Someone ... someone at the restaurant must have recognized me and took a photo when we weren’t aware. I was so caught up with you and Henry – it was never my intention to bring unwanted attention onto you two. If I had any inkling that someone had gotten a photo, I would have told you who I was and what you could expect.”

She regards him for a few moments more but then nods. She’s still annoyed, still miffed that he just wasn’t honest from the get go, but her lie detector tells her he’s telling the truth; if he had known about the photos, he would have told her who he was. And she does get why he did it and well, his guilt over it assuages some of her own feelings of frustration.

“I get it,” she says, and her tone is gentle enough now that most of the remaining guilt and darkness fades from his features. “Though, perhaps next time, you could be a bit more observant about whether or not people are taking photos of us at supper.”

Though he looks a bit surprised at _next time_ , as if he’s just assumed she’ll want nothing to do with him, his face breaks into a grin when she doesn’t correct her words. She’s not sure why she doesn’t take it back, say she doesn’t want to see him ever again, as she is still mad at him – but ... but that doesn’t change that the man she spent time with last night made her feel good and happy and even though she’s angry, she doesn’t want to lose that feeling.

(And, as she did hit him with her car, she’s about damn sure _this_ finally makes them even.)

“Speaking of ‘next time’,” he says, slowly, gauging her reaction. “I’ve extended my trip in Boston. Perhaps we won’t have to wait that long after all. If ... if you still want to.”

And, for the first time in a long time, surprising even herself, Emma decides to choose to see the best in a situation, not the worst, and she smiles back at Killian. “I’m free tonight, as it happens.”

“Ah,” he says, with a twinkle in his eyes, “What are the chances? I’m free too.”

.

The second season premiere of _The Jolly Roger_ is proclaimed as the “television event of the year” and Henry’s been excited for what feels like forever, especially as this is the episode filmed when he and Emma had gone down to the Caribbean to visit Killian. Just the thought of the Caribbean – with its hot sun, clear waters, blue skies, and warm sand – brings back great memories, and even Emma is excited to see the episode.

She finally caved and watched the show, though she still fast-forwards through the awful opening music that Killian still teases her about hating so much. Turns out _he’d_ been one of the producers of the thing (because, of course), making Emma’s faux-pas even more embarrassing. Tonight they’re watching the episode live – of course – so there’s no fast-forwarding to be had. She’s just glad they’re still at Killian’s house in Los Angeles, not yet down at the screening in downtown Hollywood, as she’s not sure how well covering her ears would fly in a room full of the show’s most powerful people.

She’s not sure how she’ll manage it later when they finally go down to the party for the screening in Los Angeles’ time-zone (thank god for TVs with East Coast channels) but that’s a problem for then.

They settle onto the wide sofa just before the East Coast starts airing the episode, Henry sitting right on the edge of it as he watches the TV clock with anxious eyes, while Killian and Emma actually attempt to sit comfortably, leaning back against the plush curtains, Killian’s arm slung around Emma’s shoulders.

As show time finally rolls around, Henry nearly bouncing off the sofa with excitement, Emma braces herself for the dreadful sound, ready to cover her ears when she realizes – it’s not the same theme music.

For a moment, she remains silent – just to make sure she’s not just losing her mind – but no, this is definitely different and, to her surprise, she loves it. Its sweet and almost haunting, with piano notes interspersed with far gentler violin strings. It still somehow perfectly fits the show, which, as Emma’s watched, is more about Captain Hook’s loss and darkness than the violence of a pirate’s life.

She sits up a bit, pulling away from Killian and narrowing her eyes at him. He just looks back at her innocently, and says, “Yes?”

“Why is the music different? What did you do?”

He grins mischievously and he tugs her closer, pressing a kiss onto her temple. “Had to get you to watch it somehow, Swan.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
